A line is but an exhausted circle
as prose is to poem
one day he said
he loved the smell
of marriage-I-wanna
in the morning
but in the evening
refused to be
a soldier in their salvation
would rather run
into a gallery or
downtown empty bar
than write about
the anger in the world
and almost all of it made up
out of made up things
the slow machinery
of waves and dreams.
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